


Oh, The Places You'll Go!

by landrews



Category: DR. SEUSS - Works, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Crack, Dark Crack, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landrews/pseuds/landrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have to find Thing One. Fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, The Places You'll Go!

**Author's Note:**

> Set Season 5, dark!crack!fic
> 
> A/N: Originally a thousand words for a Last Author Standing prompt. It got longer. Written August, 2011
> 
> Title from Dr. Seuss book of the same name. If you've never read it, here's the text: http://denuccio.net/ohplaces.html 
> 
> Of course, it's best just to get it at the library or find it at a bookstore. The illustrations are priceless. Reading it from Dean POV? :shivers: 
> 
> Disclaimer Just twisting things up- SPN is Kripke, et al's, and no offense meant to Dr. Seuss or his estate-

 

 

“Christ,” Dean swears, as the stool he careens into crashes to the basement floor. 

“Bobby!” he yells up the staircase. “Bobby!”

“Dean?” Bobby yells back. The heavy thud of his boots thump across the kitchen floor overhead.

“Shit.” Dean scans the room, but there's lots of stuff down there, plenty of places to hide. The small vent-type windows aren't exactly secure against anything but demons, and they're cranked wide open anyway.

“Dean?” Bobby says again, and clatters onto the steps.

“What was in that box under the bench?”

Bobby stops on the second step, frowning. He looks past Dean to the tool bench where Dean's smelting silver in a small crucible and pouring it into graphite molds to make bullets. Although Dean has made himself a clear place to heat the metal and handle the blowtorch for the molds, the underside of the bench is a rat's nest of things Bobby's stowed in however it fit to keep it out of his way. 

There's stuff down there, actually everywhere in the basement, that shouldn't see the light of day ever again. And Dean knows Bobby knows Dean knows that fact. Had it drilled into him from the very first time his boots hit the dirt of the yard.

“Dean,” Bobby says, and it's a warning. “Which box.”

“Um...” Dean leans a bit, toes a wooden box with the top hanging askew so he can read it. “Do Not Open. T1.”

“Why'd you open it?”

“I didn't,” Dean says, quick and defensive, his stomach dropping even further.

“Boy.”

“I kinda kicked it? Looking for the lighter I dropped. And when I went to shove it back where it was, it kinda...” He looks at his boots. Bobby waits. Dean's back aches. He shuffles his feet, looks up at Bobby without raising his head. “Popped. Open.” 

Bobby doesn't say anything. Just stands there on the second step.

Dean rubs a hand down his face. He's been down here three hours on little to no sleep and he gets it, Bobby being pissed, he does, but... “Christ. The top slid, Bobby. What the fuck was it?” 

“Thing One. And the tracker we need is at your Daddy's place in NY.”

“Thing One?”

“Like the Cat In The Hat?” Sam says from above them, startling them both.

“Little cat feet,” Bobby mutters as Dean says, “No. Did you remember the pie?”

Sam sighs. “Yes, Dean, I got your pie. What's Thing One, Bobby?”

“You know, Thing One, from the Cat In The Hat.”

“Jerk,” Sam breathes.

Bobby rolls his eyes and starts up the stairs. 

“Bitch,” Dean says to the empty room. He turns and snatches up the blowtorch to re-warm the last mold, lighting it up off his stupid, goddamned lighter. “Goddamnfuckinshit.”

*

Dean wants to stop at every bookstore between Sioux Falls and Buffalo and destroy every Dr. Seuss book he can find. But he doesn't have time, what with Thing One off into the wild. “Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters and pounds the steering wheel.

Sam rolls his head to face Dean and cracks his eyes open. “Dude,” he sighs. “Take a deep breath.”

Dean shrugs his shoulders back and tries to slouch down like it's not fucking killing him to be taking time out from the apocalypse to hunt down a cartoon character. “Kids really believe this shit?”

“You heard Bobby. The room from Good Night, Moon...”

“Yeah, yeah, is bound to a cabin in Minnesota.”

“It's kind of creepy that the kittens get old.”

A cold line snakes down Dean's back. The hunter's family burns the cabin every fifteen or twenty years when the first cat dies. He hopes he never leaves a legacy like that. Then he thinks of breaking the first seal, slicing into that first soul, and his stomach rolls as he flushes hot. He cranks the window down and gulps air. Cleveland's frigid at three in the morning. 

Sitting up, Sam pulls his jacket closed.

“Sorry,” Dean says.

Sam just shakes his head.

Hopefully, he'll never have kids that have to know about his legacy. It's not like he deserves family anymore, anyway. “Hey, you remember?”

“You reading all those books to me? Yeah. Dr. Seuss and P.D Eastman.”

Dean nods, his throat too tight to talk.

“Sam and The Firefly. I spent the whole summer looking for words above the fields when Dad drove at night.”

“I can't believe I let that thing out. It was...” Dean shudders. “It hissed at me.”

Sam laughs. “Remember that one book? With the Waiting Place?”

Dean does. He read it to Sam twice and then “lost” it in a dumpster somewhere in Florida. “I'm telling you, Sam. Dr. Seuss wrote horror, I don't care how many kids like it.” 

Since Sam seems wide awake now, Dean leans forward and turns the music up. 

*

At John's storage unit, it takes them two and a half hours to locate the wooden crate holding Thing Two. The wards have kept it in a sort of suspended animation, but as soon as the crowbar lifts the edge, Thing Two is as lively as Thing One. Thanks to Bobby, they're ready, though. Sam snags it by the nape of its neck and the back of its red sleepers. Dean wrestles on the magic-soaked radio collar. 

After it's secured around its neck, Thing Two just stands there, blinking at them. It's ugly. Bone white, with blue hair like a clown's. Its friendly, helpful look is kind of scary. 

“Find,” Dean says. 

It raises its scanty brows at them.

Gritting his teeth and hoping it's not capable of trashing whole cities, Dean says, “Thing One. Go find...it.”

Thing Two's gone so fast, it's just a blur.

Sam makes an instinctive move to follow and then stops in the sunlit doorway, looking to the left and right before he shrugs. 

“Let's get this place re-warded before we do the spell,” Dean suggests, though his muscles are practically burning with the need to be chasing.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agrees.“I just hope we don't come across the Cat In The Hat.”

“I never liked that book,” Dean spits. “That cat was just... un-natural.”

*

The locator spell says Thing Two's headed west, towards Detroit. The fastest way to get there would be by cutting through Canada north of Lake Erie. Although they have both driver's licenses and passports they're pretty certain will hold up to international scrutiny, they decide they can't risk the Impala being searched at a border crossing by someone sharper than a county deputy. 

They go back the way they came, along the south shore, Dean trying his best to stay under the radar. By the time, they hit Toledo, Thing Two is headed south, towards Indianapolis. Sam drives through the early evening and then Dean floors it after midnight, pushing the Impala hard enough that she shivers under his hands.

They catch up to it in Waterloo, Iowa. It's closing in on four o'clock and they're sitting outside a yellow, wood-frame, two story house on the wooded back edge of a generic, middle-class neighborhood. There's a truck in the drive, but it's covered in pollen and Dean doubts it's been moved in months. “What d'ya think,” he asks, as Sam slides back in beside him. 

“Old swing set out back. Baseball bat on the patio. No car in the garage.”

“Kids old enough to be home alone?”

Sam shrugs. He opens the dash compartment and shuffles through it while Dean stares at the front of the house. “Here,” Sam says, slapping a badge on his chest. “Stop glaring.”

“I'm not glaring,” Dean growls and plasters on a smile.

Sam snorts. “Yeah, that helps.”

They climb out and stride to the front door. Dean feels watched. He's got a bad feeling about this. Sam bangs the old-fashioned knocker up and down.

There's a crash from inside and a muffled cry. 

“Shit.” 

Sam's already bolting down the side, trampling the hedge along the wall to the nearest window.

Dean puts his shoulder to the door while pulling his Colt free. He tries the door knob and thank god, the latch gives under his thumb. He shoves the door open, sweeping the entry with a two-handed grip. There's a dining room chair overturned in the hall and curtains cover the floor. Sam's heat at his back, and then crowding against him, before Dean ventures forward. A giggle floats down from upstairs.

Sam scopes the downstairs, pitching quiet 'clears' to Dean's ears only as Dean covers the staircase. Something or someone pitter-patters along the hall above their heads, a toilet flushes, more giggling ensues. 

The Cat In The Hat appears in Dean's sights at the top of the stairs, Thing Two's radio collar in his gloved hands. Dean's finger twitches. His tongue is numb. 

“Uh,” Sam says from over his left shoulder.

Dean shakes his head.

“You sent me Thing One,” says the cat. “Now you've sent me Thing Two.” 

“Thank you, Dean, thank you,” says the Cat in the Hat. “Now what games we can play, in this time that's so dreary. Since I'm not the devil, there's no need to be leery.” 

His voice is mellow and deep. Dean's gun hand drops a few inches.

***

“Dean,” Sam hisses.

The cat walks down the steps, but Dean doesn't lift his gun or say anything.

“Stop right there,” Sam demands. He can't get around Dean's bulk without knocking him over, so Sam advances just enough to place his gun over Dean's right shoulder. If he fires, Dean'll be deaf for a week. “Dean,” he snarls.. 

“Look, look at me; see what I can do; this radio collar will fit better on you.”

Tucking his Colt away at his lower back, Dean bolts forward and halfway up the stairs to meet the cat. Charging up behind him, Sam flattens Dean, and driving his knee down hard between Dean's shoulders, sticks his Taurus into the cat's face, but the cat twists, impossibly. Sam's brain stutters. It wraps its tail around his wrist, even as he's being spun onto his back, and the gun barks, recoil vibrating through Sam's taut arms. 

Dean shouts, grabbing at his thigh. The cat smirks, his whiskers twitching up. It stomps on Sam's belly and leans over to snap the collar around Dean's neck. 

Sucking in air, Sam's rolling to his feet, but the cat's already in retreat up the stairs. 

Thing Two runs by on the landing, tugging a kite along on a short string. Wild laughter follows him, and then Sam sees the kids, a girl and a boy, both under ten. Tow-headed. White tees over bright colored shorts. They're gone again before he's opened his mouth. “Hey!” he calls anyway.

“Toodle-do, Sam,” says the Cat.

“That's more than enough out of you,” says the Cat In The Hat.

***

“Sam?”

There's no answer. Dean's leg is on fire. He lifts his right hand and stares at the blood coating it. He's on a carpeted staircase. A glass bowl of water sits on the step just above him; a large goldfish swims around and around. Dizzy, Dean closes his eyes again. Sam will find him.

***

“Dean,” Sam says, but his voice is squeaky and small. His shoulders are tired from trying to balance himself on his fins on the rim of the bowl. “Dean.”

Dean finally stops fluttering his lids and actually pries one eye open. 

“Dean,” Sam tries again. 

Both Dean's eyes open wide. He scrambles up and back and falls over, slithering down two steps before he catches himself again. He picks up the Taurus lying there and glares at Sam. “What the fuck?”

Sam can't really waste his efforts on a sigh. “The cat.”

“Yeah, yeah, the cat,” Dean grouses. He heaves himself up, shoves Sam's gun into his jacket, readjusts his Colt, and then reaches for the bowl.

Sam ducks into the water. The sideways slosh rocks him heavily and he wishes he could brace against the bowl, but the sides are too rounded.

When Dean sets him on the landing, he leaps to the rim and points a fin. “That way,” he squeaks.

Dean wrinkles his nose and quirks his mouth.

“Don't,” Sam pleads. “Just go.”

Lurching away, Dean ricochets off the wall and staggers down the upstairs hall in the direction of the latest crash. Sam twitches, his fins trembling. He drops back into the water and turns his head from side to side, trying to see through the magnified blur of the water, glass, and bloody streaks Dean left behind. Frustrated, he flips his tail and frets.

***

Dean narrows his eyes against the noise of the kids laughing hysterically and the pain shooting up into his hip and belly with every step. He grits his teeth at the muted splash of water behind him and makes his way down the freakishly long hallway. Trailing his hand along the wall for balance, he tugs at the radio collar he finds around his neck with the other. He's sure it's the same one he attached to Thing Two before they released it. Goddamn cat.

There's some kind of light show going on in the room the kids are in, shadows flicker from the doorway. Dean leans against the wall outside and then ducks his head around. Thing One and Thing Two are on an improvised stage made of books emptied from the wall to ceiling shelves and cushions from the couch. It's a playroom, with a big TV, and a table stacked with colored paper. Pens and brushes and crayons litter the floor, along with dismembered dolls and little doll clothes.

Dean takes a deep breath and looks again, a quick feint of his head. Thing One is cartwheeling across the wobbling stage while Thing Two does a jig, its blue hair sticking straight up. Standing at stage left, the cat has his back to him. He whips around as Dean is drawing back.

“Are your ears burning? We've been talking you up. There's someone who's yearning to sew you all up.”

“Sew you allll up,” the boy child crows.

“Sew you inside,” the girl child cries.

Dean has no idea what they're talking about, but since he's been made, he steps through the doorway and makes a grab for the kids. The girl scoots away, but he gets the boy by the arm, yanks him up and tucks him under his arm, kicking and yelling.

Thing One whips by him on one side and then Thing Two rips past on the other, knocking him sideways. The boy falls, dragging Dean down with him. He scrambles away. Dean rolls over onto his back and peers up at the cat. So far no one's dead, so Dean gives himself a moment to breathe. He hurts. The cat looks down on him, impassive.

“You made my brother a fish.”

“The fish.”

Dean raises his brows.

“There's always a fish. Or a cricket. Or something elephantish.”

“Elephantish?”

The cat nods. “A conscience is a conscience, no matter how small.”

“Oh.” Dean rolls over and uses the back of the couch to haul himself up.

The cat's ears perk up. He listens for a second, his eyes unfocused. Dean steps into the breach, reaching for his Colt.

Smiling, the cat bares his fangs- not unkindly. “Footsteps, Dean,” says the cat.

“Sweep the house time, great big show time, don't waste my dime time,” says the Cat in the Hat.

And then Dean's feet are swept out from under him and he's falling. Again.

*

Dean startles awake, coming up hard, panting, his tee shirt soaked in sweat. A crow scrambles off the sideview mirror, cawing as it flaps away. He's behind the wheel of the Impala. Rutted dirt track straight ahead and tall, tasseled corn all around.

Beside him, Sam is looking whole and non-fishy. Dean thwacks him on the chest. “Hey! Wake up.”

Sam blinks his eyes open and frowns at him. “You still have the collar on.”

“Shit,” Dean says and lets his head thump back on the seat. “I thought it was a dream.”

“Hello, boys,” Zachariah says from the back seat and Dean jumps out of his skin again, his heart bouncing off his ribcage.

“Damn it. That's what the cat meant about dropping a dime.”

“Nice collar, Dean. Handy location tool.”

Scrabbling at the collar, Dean tries to find the catch.

“Don't bother,” Zachariah informs him, lifting his hand. “Only Michael can remove it now.”

“Sam?” Castiel's voice is faint, floating up from the phone Sam's holding in his lap. “Where...”

“Today is your day, Dean.” Zachariah snaps his fingers.

*

It's cold where he's at, but the blood from his torn fingers is hot on his neck. On his slippery hands. 

It's dark. Dean thinks he's might be blind. 

He knows he's mute. The collar chokes him when he tries to find his voice. He suspects it will allow him only one certain word. 

He scratches at it, can't stop himself. 

He's not deaf.

Sam's screams echo all around him.

He thinks of Sam laughing, asking him about the Waiting Place. He wishes he could remember what it said about mixing up your left foot with your right. About strange birds and balancing acts. 

Sammy stops. 

This silence in between is worse, waiting for the next round. Dread curdles its fingers in Dean's gut, chokes off his gasping breath as he waits, needing it. 

Finally, Sammy screams, it's hoarse. But he's still here. Relief loosens Dean's shoulders.

Dean digs at his throat, trying to get a finger under the collar, welcomes the pain that shoots through his arms and up into his head. Dean tries to push himself up in the dark. There's nothing to help him, no wall he can find. Sammy. Sammy. As long as he's screaming, he's here, still here.

The angels have nothing on Alistair and Dean held out on him for years. 

Sammy stops. 

There's only silence. And more silence. Dean thinks his head may burst open with it. He crouches in the cold, silent, darkness and waits. And waits. And waits. He hits his ears with his hot hands, hits his chest, claps his hands together and cringes from the pain, but hears nothing. Nothing at all.

Is Sammy still screaming? 

If he says yes, will he hear the Boom Bands playing?

 

 


End file.
